


not with a bang but with a whimper

by dip_dyed_ghost



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sadinnit, Tommy is in exile, Touch-Starved, the fucking compasses bro, they hurt my heart, tubbo tries to make ammends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27959615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dip_dyed_ghost/pseuds/dip_dyed_ghost
Summary: He knows Tubbo doesn’t care about him anymore. He knows that. He’s been shown that. But it doesn’t stop Tommy from caring about him. He brushes the pads of his fingers over the compass’s glass and wonders how he’s doing, if he’s tired of it all yet, if he needs help. He watches the way it points strongly in the direction over the ocean. He hopes he’s alright.Even after everything, he hopes he’s alright.—————During his exile, Tommy finds a drugged and hurt Tubbo on his doorstep. He can’t not help him.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 30
Kudos: 421





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so i was going through old screenshots and found [this](https://nerdy-birdy18.tumblr.com/post/182286335279/promptnerd-whumplover-the-hero-shows-up-at-the) tumblr post, and was immediately inspired to make something out of it. enjoy :)

Tommy lies on the floorboards of Ghostbur’s vacation home. He pushes his socked feet against the extra barrel of blue he keeps inside, the bent wood creaking under the pressure. He does it again, and again, and again, repeating the motion until he’s sure the nail holes have started to wear down, leaving pockets for rust to grow, their cries of protest finally annoying him enough to stop. 

He sighs and drops his head back onto the floor with a thud. 

Ghostbur’s only been gone for ten minutes and Tommy already feels considerably more unhinged. Untethered, more like. He’s found that it's much harder to hold on when there’s no one else here to help him take up all this empty space. 

It’s gotten to the point where he’s not even sure he’s still here. 

Well. Obviously he is—he hasn't gone completely mad, not just yet. But _fuck_. There are split seconds where it feels like he fades out. Like he needs to grab onto something to prove to himself he hasn’t disappeared, to scrape his hands on the bloody logs just to feel their grit, to ground himself in the physical plane because there’s no way his mind is going to do it on its own. 

The feeling’s already creeping up on him. Tommy sinks his hand into his hair and pulls until the sharpness of the pain clears his mind enough for him to continue to exist. 

It’s fine. He’ll be fine. Ghostbur will be back tomorrow. All he has to do is make it through the night, and after they can figure out their next move together. 

Tommy closes his eyes.

* * *

His thoughts always go back to him. 

It’s so stupid. The whole thing.

He catches himself turning to the side throughout the day, mouth opening to say Tubbo's name and getting the first sound out before realizing that no one’s there. Tommy finds himself wanting to tell him all the new little things—like how he found a cool cave to explore, or how he escaped a near run-in with death over a lava pool, or how the way Ghostbur shaved the bark in one spot makes it look like a dick—but ends up having to tell them all to Ghostbur instead. 

No matter how nice he is about everything, it’s not the same. He’s not Tubbo. He doesn’t say Tubbo things. 

Sometimes, the anger creeps up on him when he least expects it. When Tommy’s doing the most mundane tasks, like crafting new tools or foraging for food. 

_How could he?_ his mind seems to shout, crashing into everything, not caring what breaks. 

_How could he just throw me away without a fight?_

Maybe he’s just mad that he didn’t see it. That Tommy’d give up a hundred nations for Tubbo, a thousand, while he wouldn't do the same for him. That’s probably what makes it hurt the most. Sure, the loneliness is borderline crippling, but that icky sense of betrayal that won’t leave him be? That’s what really gets him. 

Tommy would rather die than lose him; Tubbo can’t say the same.

The one thing he can truly say he has left are the disks. He keeps them safe, hidden away in his enderchest, and tries not to look at them for too long. 

The compass is another story. 

He’s taken to holding it nearly every night now, taking it out after Ghostbur’s gone and floated off, the whole thing feeling too private to look at with company present, even though Ghostbur’s the one who made it in the first place.

He knows Tubbo doesn’t care about him anymore. He knows that. He’s been shown that. But it doesn’t stop Tommy from caring about him. He brushes the pads of his fingers over the compass’s glass and wonders how he’s doing, if he’s tired of it all yet, if he needs help. He watches the way it points strongly in the direction over the ocean. He hopes he’s alright. 

Even after everything, he hopes he’s alright. 

* * *

Tommy’s only been dozing off on the floor for a few minutes before he hears something at the door. 

It sounds like a faint knock, and for a brief second he thinks Ghostbur’s back early, before remembering that he doesn't bother with doors anymore. Tommy immediately tenses. He sits up, hand dropping to the dagger on his thigh, the handle cold in his grasp as he stares at the unmoving door. He angles himself towards it, ready for an attack.

He's glad he already put the compass back in his chest.

Tommy runs through who it could be. They don’t get many visitors out here these days, so the options are limited: Dream was just here this morning, so he doubts he’d be back to burn his stuff so soon; Ranboo only comes by to leave letters lying around, never to be seen in-person, so he writes him off, too; Techno wouldn’t bother with the courtesy of knocking. 

A minute of silence passes. Tommy’s jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching it. He stays as quiet as he can, listening for any bit of sound.

Nothing.

Eventually, he finds himself slowly relaxing again. He brushes it off as the wind. More likely, it's just this mind playing tricks on him, making him hear things that aren’t there, as usual. He settles back on the floor, knife still in hand. 

The next knock is louder.

More of a thud than a knock, really. As if someone had let their body drop onto it instead of going through the trouble of raising their hand. 

Tommy shoots up, scrambling to his feet, weapon at the ready and breath shallow as it gets stuck in his lungs. He makes the effort to breathe properly. Not wanting whoever it is to get the jump on him, he adjusts his grip on his dagger, steps forward, and flings the door open.

His stomach fucking drops. 

His mind doesn’t quite process what’s in front of him. Vital pieces of information skip past his awareness, like the dimensions are being torn and put back together in front of him, because the picture in front of him doesn’t make any sense. 

It’s- it’s Tubbo, but not. 

This isn’t the Tubbo in his memories. This one is wearing a blue, crumpled suit, the stitching torn on one shoulder, his white dress shirt spattered with brown droplets and streaks. This one has matted hair, some strands stuck to his forehead and others sticking up at odd angles.

This one is on his doorstep. 

What feels like every emotion possible flashes through him, but the one that's the most prominent is the hurt. It fills him completely, the physical feeling of it taking root in his chest, his lips parting unintentionally as it sucker punches him in the gut.

Before he can even begin to sort through it, or figure out what to say, what to ask, something else comes to his attention. 

The dazed look on his face is one he’s sure he's never seen before. Tubbo’s gaze flickers over him but doesn’t really focus on anything, eyes seemingly seeing through him as he leans himself against the doorframe, chest rising way too slow for the way he’s shaking. 

For all they used to joke about drugs, he knows for a fact that Tubbo’s never taken any. Never. He’s always been clear-eyed, and present, and aware in a way Tommy would call uptight, but only in an attempt to push him out of it. 

Even if they’d had the chance to, Tommy doubts he would’ve taken it. He can’t imagine that’s changed. 

There’s a gash across his neck, blood dried and caked and so very apparent. Tommy has a brief moment where he wonders why he didn’t notice that first. 

“I-" Tubbo starts, voice cracking and weak, and Tommy just wants to fucking crumble. To throw out any plan he ever had to cover up his hurt with indifference.

Tubbo sways backwards. On instinct, Tommy darts out to steady him, dropping his dagger onto the floor with a clatter and grabbing his upper arm in one quick motion. The movement jostles him, and his head lolls sideways before lifting back up slowly to look at Tommy.

“Didn’t know where else to go,” he slurs, says with his one last bit of strength.

Before Tommy can figure out what to say, what to even do, Tubbo’s knees are buckling and his weight is dropping into him, his form falling onto his chest. He braces himself to hold their combined weight, steadying them in the middle of the doorway.

Tommy holds on tight and doesn’t let him fall. 


	2. Chapter 2

Tommy sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, leaning against a wall in the vacation home. Glowing coal topples over in the furnace, its dying light casting an orange glow onto Tubbo’s sleeping form where he lies beside him. 

It’s morning now. Tommy hasn’t slept this bad in ages. Probably not since his first night out here, months ago. 

Back then, he was worried about a multitude of things: how he’d be able to make it alone out here, how he’d get back home, _if_ he’d ever make it back, even. Just that anxiety and a heavy ball of betrayal. It was terrible, but he’s not sure how it compares to how he feels right now.

In a way, worrying about someone else is worse. 

He wishes Tubbo would wake up already so he could figure out what the fuck is going on.

Almost as if he could hear his longings, Tubbo shifts in his sleep. Tommy stills, holding his breath, not risking a sound. The moment passes. Carefully, Tommy reaches out to readjust Wilbur’s old coat he’d laid on him for warmth, tugging the edge down over his side, making sure he keeps warm.

Tommy settles back against the wall and waits. 

It’s probably about an hour later when Ghostbur arrives. Time has lost a lot of meaning to him since being out here, but it feels like an hour, and so that’s what he’s going with. 

Ghostbur floats inside without a word, too focussed on his overflowing messenger bag to notice Tubbo curled up in the corner. 

Tommy jolts to attention. “Wilbur,” he whispers harshly, trying to get his attention before he makes too much noise. 

“Ghostbur,” he corrects, whispering back in the same tone without looking up.

“Ghostbur. You gotta be quiet, man.”

He pauses, a bottle of honey in his hand. He finally looks up at him. His eyebrows shoot up as he notices Tubbo, his gaze bouncing back between him and Tommy.

“Is that-" he starts, only to be cut off by Tommy’s aggressive nodding and subsequent shushing motion. Tommy points with his head to the door, then gets up as quietly as possible and slips outside. 

“What’s the president doing in Logstedshire?” Ghostbur asks quietly, joining him out on the lawn. He puts his honey bottle back in his bag and shoots the house a glance. 

Tommy huffs. He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at the way it feels. "I don’t know. He showed up last night.”

Ghostbur gasps with a smile. “As a surprise?” He clasps his hands together. “Oh, how lovely.”

“No.” Tommy keeps himself from scowling by quickly tapping his finger against his leg. “He was...hurt, I guess. I don’t know. Haven’t asked yet.”

“Hurt?” 

“Yeah.”

Ghostbur frowns. “Well, that’s no good. I have some healing potions around here somewhere, if he needs any.”

Tommy scratches the back of his neck. “Ha. About those. I sorta already used them.”

He probably used way more than he needed, in all honesty. Tubbo wasn’t very coherent once he’d managed to drag him inside, shaking silently where he sat him down in the corner, which did nothing to calm Tommy’s rising panic. He had to hold the bottles for him as he drank, some of the pink liquid spilling onto his dress shirt. Tubbo didn’t even complain, just drank and lied back when he was done. 

Seeing him like that made Tommy feel sick. He figured the only thing he could do was let him rest, but he’s never been good at just sitting around. 

Before he fell asleep for the night, Tommy cleaned the cut on his neck with what little clean water he had. He dragged over his makeshift bedding from his tent and laid it on the floor for him. He put some coal in the furnace and lit it so he wouldn’t be cold. All Tubbo could manage to say were quiet ‘thank you’s and ’sorry’s. 

Tommy also checked his breathing every few minutes while he slept to make sure it hadn’t stopped, shoulders dropping in relief with every warm exhale against his back of his hand.

“Oh. Well, that’s okay,” Ghostbur says, “I picked up a lot of ingredients during my excursion. I can just make more.”

The stairs creak. 

“You guys are really bad at keeping quiet,” Tubbo says. 

Tommy whips around. Tubbo stares at them from the entryway, a pale face beside the cobblestone. He looks slightly better than he did last night, hair hassily brushed into place with his fingers, eyes tired but aware. His button-up has so many creases. 

The relief Tommy feels at seeing him standing is enough to send him to his knees. 

“Tubbo!” Ghostbur exclaims, promptly abandoning his conversation with Tommy to float over to their makeshift house. “We were just talking about you.”

“What a coincidence,” Tubbo says, a small smile appearing on his face. 

“Do you want some soup? You look like you need some soup.”

“That’d be great, actually. Thank you."

Ghostbur looks over his shoulder, spinning around and doing a complete turn. “Okay, uh- we don’t have a table. Or any soup. Do you mind waiting while I make some?”

Tubbo tells him that’s fine, leaning to the side as Ghostbur floats past him inside. The sound of cupboards opening and closing echoes out, as does the clatter of pots and pans as he moves around, gathering supplies. 

With Ghostbur gone, the lack of words exchanged grows apparent. Tommy can’t stand it. 

He raises his hand in an oddly timid wave. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Tubbo replies quietly, meeting his eyes.

Man. He misses him so much it physically hurts. He shakes his head and lets out a quiet laugh at the absurdity of it all, at seeing his best friend for the first time in months. Can he even call him that, anymore? He has no idea where they stand. What Tubbo’s thinking. Why he ended up here, even.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, figuring that’s a good place to start. 

Tubbo grimaces, then quickly clears his face of any expression. “Fine. Good. Thank you, by the way. For all the-” he gestures vaguely at himself. 

“No problem. Yeah.”

The silence stretches out. 

It takes Tommy a second to figure out a more delicate way to essential ask, _What the fuck what that all about_?

"Alright, big man," Tommy says. "Lay it on me. Explain yourself."

Tubbo clenches his jaw and nods. “I- right.” He spares a glance behind himself. "Can we go sit somewhere?"

Tommy decides to bring them to the big rocks at the edge of the beach. He doesn't spend much time out here, preferring instead to lose himself in the kind of work that more grassy terrain can provide—gathering wood, searching for caves, scavenging the flora for berries. The beach doesn’t give him much besides sandy soles and a chance to fish.

The ocean stretches for hundreds of blocks, its empty waters granting him too much space, the salty air giving him a headache. The open expanse makes his thoughts seem so much louder. 

Tommy drops down onto a mostly flat rock. It hasn't reached its highest temperature yet, its black surface lukewarm in the early sun instead of burning. Tubbo sits down on a rock beside it. He pulls his knees close to his chest and rests his chin on them, staring out to the water.

"My boat's gone," Tubbo says, head lifted slightly with the realization.

Tommy follows his line of sight to a bare stretch on the beach, the sand wet and dark from the incessant crash of waves. "I can help you build a new one," he offers, before he can bite his tongue. "Wait no. That's stupid. Just use the portal path." 

He figured that's how he got here in the first place; it takes a fraction of the time he would have spent on the water.

Tubbo sighs, turning his cheek onto his knee away from Tommy. "Yeah. Would’ve been much easier to flee using that.”

The confirmation that he was running from something makes Tommy's heart clench. He needs to cut to the chase. "So you gonna tell me what happened or what?"

"I almost got murdered," he mumbles against his leg. He lifts his head up and looks at Tommy, taking a deep breath. “Sapnap went berserk cause he found out I was planning to kill Dream."

Tommy leans forward. He's half-sure he's heard wrong. "Sorry. Sorry. Did you say you were planning to kill _Dream_?"

Tubbo huffs, rubbing a hand on his cheek. "Mm-hmm. Kill him dead. ‘Til no lives are left, my friend."

“You’re mental. And stupid."

He scowls. “I am not.”

“You are. The man's a deity or some shit. How’re you gonna kill that? _Why_ would you?"

Tubbo takes his time responding. He inspects the rock he’s sitting on, running his hand over what Tommy knows to be a gritty texture. He traces patterns on it, running his fingers across it in circles, before finally saying, quietly, "To get you back, for one."

Tommy's mind goes blank. 

The tiniest spark of hope flares up in him before he can help it. He has to focus on his breathing to hold onto his composure, reminding himself of what he’s had playing on loop in his head for months now— _betrayal, betrayal, betrayal_. 

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Tommy says, voice cracking in the middle. He clears his throat. “I’m not going to throw you out or some shit.”

Tubbo shakes his head. “No. No. I’m not just saying things.” His eyes are wide and pleading, a slightly desperate quality to them. “You- I think I made a mistake.”

“Bit too late for that.”

“Tommy-”

“Why were you all messed up?” He asks, cutting him off. 

Tubbo shuts his mouth. He looks down at his hands. They’re as pristine as Tommy remembers, callous-free from lack of hard labour, only marred by the smears of dirt he has yet to clean off. “The sword. He had an enchantment on it, or something. Nicked my neck. I can’t really remember.”

Tommy nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “You said you had nowhere else to go.”

He still doesn’t know what to make of that. If being his last choice is better than not being one at all.

Tubbo rubs his hands together slowly. “I didn’t. I ran from him for hours. Finally lost him in a jungle, but...you know how bad I am with directions.” He gives Tommy a smile, which he doesn’t return. “Anyway, I couldn’t find my way back, and I could barely walk.” He shrugs. “So, I figured I’d come here.”

“How the hell did you find me then?”

Tubbo reaches into his suit jacket, hand slipping into an inside pocket. He takes something out, the object sitting in his palm, holding it close to himself. 

“Ghostbur gave it to me.” 

Tommy knows what it is as soon as he lays his eyes on it. 

The compass seems to be a replica of his own. Its brassy metal is enhanced by the purple enchantment shimmering across it. It sits so perfectly in Tubbo’s hand, taking up all the space in his palm. 

Tommy reaches out in a silent ask to hold it. He hands it over. 

Up close, it’s easier to see the scratches on the surface, the indents where it appears to have been dropped, all the defects in the outer casing. He runs his thumb over the battered edges. He flips it over, breath catching at the ‘ _Your Tommy’_ engraved on the back.

He flips it back around and opens it, not surprised to find the arrow pointing straight at his chest. He traces a crack at the bottom of the cool glass. A strange feeling spreads through him. 

“You’re really shit at taking care of your things, you know that?” he says, in an attempt to drown it out. 

“Sue me, bitch boy.”

It shocks a laugh out of him. It’s probably the first time he’s felt proper laughter since he left. 

Tubbo reaches for it, and he lets him take it. Tommy watches him tuck it back into his jacket, safe and sound. 

“I can’t believe you were planning on killing Dream. That’s literal murder, Tubbo.”

He narrows his eyes. “Are you judging me?”

“Well, I’m not _not_ judging you.”

“You are not in any position to judge my morals. You’re literally an arsonist.”

Tommy sputters. “Not on purpose!"

“You steal from any chest you can find.”

“I- well. You see, that’s just borrowing without ever giving it back. Totally different.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. If he focuses, Tommy thinks he can detect a slight smile. “My point stands.”

There’s a shout that comes from over the hill. Ghostbur stands there, waving his arms in the air. 

“Soup!” he yells, then turns around and disappears back to the campsite. 

Tubbo stretches, pushing his legs out. “Guess it’s done.” He gets up and flattens down his shirt. His efforts don’t do much good—the wrinkles in it are set, creasing in odd places, making him look much more disheveled than he actually is. Tommy leaves him to try and sort it out and starts the trek away from the beach. 

He doesn’t make it very far before a hand grabs his wrist, keeping him in place. The hold is gentle. He turns to see Tubbo looking at him with an oddly intense expression. 

“I don’t know how to make you believe me,” he says, “but I’ve been trying to get you back for weeks now."

Tommy freezes in place. He swallows, at a lack for what to say. 

It’s a strange thing, to hear Tubbo speak the words he’s been dreaming of hearing. 

This is what he’s wanted since the beginning. For Tubbo to realise that he chose wrong and to get him back, finally ready to fight for what really matters. To own up to his mistake and bring him home. Tommy expects to feel joy, some kind of positive emotion. 

Instead, all he feels is hollow. 

It’s a revelation for him. Months have passed without a single word said to him. Tubbo had every chance to visit, to communicate with him, to do _something_. And yet, he never did. Not even once. 

No matter what, everything is now going to be too little too late. Tubbo missed whatever chance he had to take this back. 

Tommy shakes his hand off, pretending not to notice the flash of pain on Tubbo’s face.

“We can talk about it later,” he tells him. “I’m starving.”

He seems to want to protest, but ultimately, he lets it go, following Tommy back to the campsite, head low and mouth shut.

Ghostbur meets them outside the vacation home. “Tubbo, would you mind getting the bowls? They’re in one of the bottom barrels. The one farthest left, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“I’ll get the spoons,” Tommy offers, dashing inside to where they keep their limited cutlery, wanting to be out of Tubbo’s space for as long as he can. Ghostbur joins him, going to stir the soup simmering in a pot hanging from a hook, heated above enchanted fire. 

The smell of soup permeates the air, some kind of vegetable broth mixed with pieces of meat, carrots, potatoes, and whatever other goods Ghostbur found. 

“Is he okay now?” Ghostbur stage-whispers. 

Tommy nods, pulling the spoons out from their clay storage unit. “Yep. All healed up.”

“I think this is the wrong barrel,” Tubbo hollers, voice muffled like he’s yelling into something. 

“Nope, that’s the one,” Ghostbur calls back without looking. 

“I really don’t think it is.”

Unwilling to listen to Tubbo grumble, Tommy peeks his head out the door. He sighs, seeing the way Tubbo’s gone and half crawled into one of the sideways barrels on the floor—a barrel that is, in fact, the wrong one.

“Ghostbur, you made him get into the blue,” Tommy says.

Tubbo sits back onto his knees, looking down at a piece of blue is his hands. Tommy’s about to go and take pity on him, show him where the bowls actually are, but the sight makes him stop.

The blue in Tubbo’s hands is darkening. It shifts from a sky blue to a royal blue and finally to a navy, the piece as dark as his own on some of his worst nights. Tommy’s stomach drops. 

“Woah. What is this stuff?” Tubbo asks. He tilts it to the side, as if the change in the dye is just a trick of the light. 

Ghostbur pops out behind Tommy. “Oh, wow,” he says. He floats over to Tubbo, then reaches into the messenger bag slung across his shoulders. “Here. Have some more.”

Tommy watches as the new blue darkens into the same shade, the two pieces big enough to fill up his palms. 

The smile on Tubbo’s face widens, eyes lit up with curiosity. “That’s so cool. Why’s it doing that?”

“Fuck me,” Tommy says quietly. 

“It’s blue,” Ghostbur explains, rather cheerily. “It sucks up all your sadness. That’s why it changes colours, see? The blue is your sadness. Now it’s not in you anymore. For awhile, at least."

Tubbo looks down at the two pieces in his hands. “Oh."

He hands them off to Wilbur, who takes them with confusion. “You don’t want any?"

“Uh. Maybe later.” He rubs his hands on his pants, as if there’s residue he has to get off. “Could you show me where the bowls are now?"

Tommy goes back inside and leans against the wall, thinking about compasses and home and the way Tubbo’s blue mirrors his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanna say thank you to the people who left comments (and kudos) on the first chapter, i appreciate them so very much <3
> 
> also, there’s gonna be at least one more chap to this :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for very briefly implied suicidal thoughts

It's a bit tense as they all eat their food, silence broken only by idle words exchanged between Tubbo and Ghostbur, the odd clatter of spoons against wooden bowls in the background. The soup’s honestly better than Tommy expected; the broth is actually salted this time, and the veggies are cooked through. He decides to keep quiet as he finishes it, not having it in him this morning to contribute. 

Tubbo scarfs down a bowl of in record time and then goes back for another.

Tommy wants to tell him to slow down—he's half-afraid he'll make himself sick—but in the end, he lets him be. It's probably been more than a day since he last ate, anyway. He likely needs it.

Also, Tubbo’s not his to watch over anymore, and hasn’t been for awhile. He has to remember that. 

“So, how long are you planning on staying?" Ghostbur asks politely, funneling the leftover soup into large potion bottles—they’re the only sealable containers they have, something Tommy should probably look into changing soon.

Tubbo pauses, spoon in his mouth. He lowers it to his bowl. “Um.” He looks to the ground, voice timid and soft. “I'm not sure. A couple nights, maybe.” His gaze quickly finds Tommy's. “If that's alright.”

Tubbo sits across from him on the vacation home’s floor, looking out of place in his ragged clothes that are a size too big for him, pink drops of healing potion still soaked into the fabric. He’s curled around his soup bowl like it's the only thing that warms him. Ghostbur’s colourless complexion doesn't help with the coziness of the scene, nor do the fogged windows that seem to follow him wherever he goes. 

Could be worse, Tommy supposes. 

Before he has time to sort through the idea of Tubbo staying here for longer, Ghostbur butts in. “Of course. I’d love to have a visitor.” He floats slightly higher in contentment, his body shifting out of the realm for a split-second. “Tommy would too, I'm sure.”

He feels their eyes on him, and quickly stares down at the bottom of his bowl to avoid them. All that's left is a littlest bit of yellow broth he couldn’t scoop up. It smells like chicken and something distinctly earthy. “Sure,” he mumbles out. “ It’s whatever.” 

He lets himself answer before even thinking about it, because what else is he going to do? Kick him out?

The faint echo of Techno’s voice in his head whispers, _Poetic justice. It'd be what he deserves._

The thought upsets him for reasons he doesn't fully understand. 

Tommy forcefully pushes it away and stands up. He collects their bowls and cutlery, bringing them over to the cauldron that doubles as their washing-up area. The cool water chills his skin as he rinses them off, but he doesn't mind. The cold hasn't touched him for awhile now. 

The thought that he could cast Tubbo out still hovers in his mind, stubborn, likes sap stuck to his skin. He caves and lets himself consider it, and then immediately feels sick to his stomach. 

It doesn't matter if Tubbo would deserve it. Tommy won't do that. He can't. He doesn't have it in him, no matter how bitter or vengeful or angry he is. 

He almost wishes he did. Wonders if being built like that would’ve given him a good lot in life, or at the very least, a better one than this shit. 

Tubbo needs new clothes. That’s what he directs his thoughts to. Once he’s done with the washing up, Tommy crouches and rummages through the bottom cupboards they use for storage. 

He doesn't have much to offer him in terms of clothing. The only clothes he has—other than what he wore when he came here—are thin, full-body cloaks Ghostbur got from trading with villagers a couple hundred blocks East of Logstedshire. Tommy only wears them for short amounts of time; they’re better than being nude while his preferred clothes dry after being washed in the ocean.

He pulls a brown cloak out, knowing without even unfolding it that it’ll be too big for Tubbo. “Here,” Tommy says, handing it to him. “You'll have to roll up the sleeves, but it’s better than what you’ve got going on right now."

Tubbo takes it hesitantly, handling the fabric as if it might tear. “Oh.” He looks puzzled for a second, almost as if he’s wondering why Tommy is giving him something. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, Ghostbur is bringing his hands together, a clap sounding out as he cups them in excitement. “Ooo, I’ll get the rest!” he exclaims, then appears to fall backwards through the wall. Tommy sees him fly off to who knows where through the window.

Tubbo looks at Tommy, head tilted, but he just shrugs. “Yeah, I dunno either, man.”

Tommy pretends to sort out the cupboard while Tubbo changes. He hears his suit jacket fall to the floor, a dead weight that never should’ve been on his shoulders in the first place. Knowing that that thread-torn symbol of tyranny is off of him makes Tommy feel a bit better. 

A minute or so later, Tubbo makes a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh. “Hey. It’s kinda like the olden days.”

Tommy turns around and is hit with a kind of fondness he hasn’t felt in ages. 

Tommy was right; the cloak is too big for him. Much too big, in fact. The bottom edge brushes the floor, its sleeves hanging over his hands and forming sweater paws perfect for swatting people with.

It brings him back to another time. Back to when Tubbo had first joined their little family, and Phil hadn’t had a chance to get new clothes for him yet, and he had had to settle with old hand-me-downs of Techno’s and Wilbur’s and Tommy’s while he waited. He had swam in them, but even then he had looked so fucking happy about being given something that it didn’t seem to matter.

Tommy should probably stop remembering that. 

He usually stops himself. He's always been more of a ‘live-in-the-moment’ kind of guy, only focussing on the present. It's extra easy to stick to that when most of his old memories are tainted. 

The memories of when him and Tubbo were younger are definitely off-limits, so he hasn't thought much about those, no matter how good and sweet and happy they were. The other worthwhile moments from his childhood all contain people who are dead, or gone, or actively dislike him—all in all pretty shit options, too. 

On the occasions when he can’t get away from thinking, he just makes stuff up. Imagine lives for himself that don't exist, and never will. Alternate realities where Wilbur is alive, their country is at peace, and Tubbo is by his side without any feelings of hurt or regret clouding them. 

It's a bit grim, but it's all he has left. His past is gone; his present is shit; his future holds nothing he wants to see. Imagining is all he has. 

(Well. He does have something else, but that's not something he seriously wants to do yet. It's not a choice that can be undone.)

“Still just as short now as you were back then,” Tommy says, needing to pull his mind away from the path it’s dragging him down. 

“I am not. You just got weirdly tall.”

“That’s what they all say. Theys who cannot face them facts.”

Instead of replying, Tubbo takes deliberate steps forward until he’s standing in front of him. Tommy freezes. Then, with a look on his face that Tommy can only think to describe as mischievous, he swings his arm at Tommy’s chest, effectively swatting him in the shoulder with the excess fabric. It makes a dull _thwap_ sound. He barely feels it. 

It’s such a stupid gesture, something so childish, but it makes Tubbo smile in a way he hasn’t seen in forever. 

“You bitch,” Tommy exclaims. Without really thinking it through, he hurriedly starts trying to put his arm inside his shirt so that he can swing the little bit of fabric of his sleeves.

Before he even gets the chance to, Tubbo is swatting him again. He giggles as he does it, the sound musical and so fucking sweet it nearly hurts to hear it. 

Tommy redoubles his efforts, managing to hide his arm in his shirt in record time. He swings his body ninety degrees, moving forward slightly so that it hits. He gets Tubbo across the cheek, the fabric so light it barely brushes him. 

“Take that,” Tommy says, taking note of the smile on his own face. “Get wrecked.”

And for a second—just a split-second in time—Tommy forgets. 

There's no exile. No chasm between who they are now and who they used to be. It’s just them, messing around. Having fun. Taking joy in the simple fact of being around each other.

Then reality crashes back into the room, and his smile dies within him.

Tommy turns away. His expression becomes more stilted, leaving behind a slight twinge in his jaw from muscles he hasn't used in months. He puts his arm back through his shirt, feeling a bit stupid. Tubbo says nothing about the sudden change in mood. He just stands there, a bit awkwardly, looking like he’s at a loss for what to do. 

“You should probably roll your sleeves up,” Tommy says.

A pause. “Right.” Tubbo sounds so sad when he says it that Tommy almost wants to hug him. 

The odd longing makes him stop. 

He hasn't had a hug in awhile. 

It's weird how much he misses it. He hadn't realized how much casual affection he had been receiving and giving out until it was just...gone. It had been helping to keep him sane much more than he realized.

Tubbo and him used to touch all the time. 

Shoulder bumps while walking. Nudges to get the other’s attention. Knees touching while they sat on the grass. A bunch of little things throughout the day to show that they were there, and that they were in it together. 

(And that's not even counting what they did during the wars: sharing a bed when things got to be too much; desperate, clinging hugs when death got a little bit too near; gently—ever so gently—cleaning the other’s wounds when they were in no condition to do so themselves. Those times were rough, but at least he had that. At least he had that.)

Ghostbur doesn't help. He tries, but Tommy brushes him off more often than not—his form feels more like solid fog than a person, and the typical warmth that would come with touch is absent. He doesn't like being reminded of how little Wilbur remains in him. 

It’s not like Tommy _wants_ to hug Tubbo right now. Not in this present. 

It’s just...touch would be nice. Not necessarily from him, of course, or from anyone in particular. 

“Are we going to talk about it yet?” Tubbo blurts out.

It’s enough to snap Tommy away from his yearning. 

“What?”

“You know...talk about, like, everything.”

“Everything,” he repeats blankly. 

Tubbo nods, a small gesture. “Yeah.”

Tommy was expecting this conversation eventually, but not so soon; Tubbo’s not exactly the kind of person to go the blunt route, much preferring to beat around the bush for as long as possible.

But hey. If he wants to unearth everything that’s been simmering unsaid in him for months, then Tommy's not going to stop him. 

“Does that include how you banished me from my own fucking country?” He almost means to sound accusatory, but his voice comes out much more monotone than he expected. It’s weird. Empty. "Cause there's not much to talk about with that."

Tubbo’s expression grows pained. “That’s not- there’s more to it.”

Tommy sighs. “Listen. If we're having this conversation, you're gonna have to be honest.”

“I am. That’s- what you said is the surface level. It’s not the full picture. Not how I see it. Not at all.”

“Oh, I know how you see it.” He puts on a stupid voice, the one he used to use to mimic him. “‘It was for the good of the country! It was the logical thing to do!’” He drops the drawn-out tone and replaces it with something much more cold. “Just shut the fuck up, man. I don’t care. I literally do not care.”

“No.” He almost sounds angry. “I was wrong, Tommy.”

That stops him. 

Tubbo had hinted at it before, on the rocks, but he didn’t think that he’d flat out admit it like that. 

“I did it so that innocent lives didn’t have to be lost. You understand this.” Tubbo waits for Tommy to nod before he continues. “I was the president. I _am_ the president. That made me responsible for- for everything. You put me in charge.” He sets his jaw, as if convincing himself of something. “I had to. I had to do it.”

“Oh, this is the same shit. Same broken record. You just keep-”

“Let me get to the point!” Tubbo exclaims, nearly shouting. “I had to, but I wish I hadn’t. I should’ve chosen selfishly. I’m sorry it took so long for me to realise.” 

It almost doesn’t register, what he’s hearing. Tommy lets the words soak in, running them through his head, trying to find any way to misinterpret them. He can’t. They sound like what they sound like. 

“So you’re saying,” Tommy says, “that if you had a magic button that could let you go back in time, right to when you exiled me, you wouldn’t do it? You’d choose to fight? You’d make the choice to keep me?”

Tubbo doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

It should give him some life back, that confession. 

He’s been so alone out here. Tommy can’t stress that enough. The idea that he could finally have someone in his corner—have _Tubbo_ —is more than he can imagine. He’s been hurting for so long, and now, finally, after literal months, he’s being offered a reprieve, an apology, from the person he longs to be around most. 

Tommy wants to crumple into it. To let things go back to the way they were, and give Tubbo’s apologies the chance to heal over his wounds. A part of him is screaming _yes yes yes_. 

Another part of him, an unexpectedly big one, wants nothing to do with this. 

He’s surprised. Genuinely. This is what he’s wanted, afterall, since day one out here: a take-back, an apology, to simply have his _friend_ again. 

Why isn’t it enough?

He barely needs to ask; he knows why. He’s- he’s _mad_. Tubbo’s apology finally makes him feel vindicated, but all that does is clear a path so that the feeling of being wronged can rise to the surface. 

Tubbo didn’t even bother to come visit. 

Thinking about it only causes the anger to grow. He doubts it would’ve even made a difference in the end, if he did. 

They won’t be like they were before. That kind of trust—of brother-in-arms, of ride-or-die, of knowing that he has his back—is just...gone. They’ll never be like that again. Never. That bond broke as soon as Tubbo said the final words. He threw it away. 

What Tommy wants doesn’t exist anymore. He’s being allowed a parody of it, with this apology, a mockery of the kind of bond they used to share. 

So what’s the point? Even just being around him reminds him of what Tubbo chose to do when it came down to it. 

His old life is gone. He has no home anymore. L’Manburg remains, not that it’s much of a comfort when none of its citizens cared enough to fight for him. 

Maybe he should just say ‘fuck it’ to everything. Maybe Wilbur was right about some things. 

He wants to dig his heels in and let Tubbo see the gravity of what he’s caused. 

So that’s exactly what he does. 

“Well that’s too fucking bad, innit?” Tommy says. He shrugs, and it almost feels like he’s trying to craft a wall of indifference. 

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says quietly. He takes a step forward as if to move closer, but Tommy leans back on instinct, making him stop. “Tommy,” he says, so much in the way he says his name, “I’m really, really sorry. I’d take it back if I could.”

“You can’t, though.” A sardonic smile paints his face. “So sucks to suck.”

Tubbo frowns. “But-”

“No. That’s it. I’m past this now. Moving on in life. Sliding down the slippery slope of moving on from all that shit.”

Tubbo just stares at him. “Tommy. I’m- I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

He’s never seen Tubbo so at a loss for what to do, or to say. His hands shake slightly. “I’m standing here, trying to apologize-”

“You can’t!” And there it is, the carefully held in anger, the reserve that’s been steadily building inside him. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t fucking cut it! You haven’t- _I’ve_ been the one out here, alone, for _months_. You chose to leave me out here.”

Tubbo shrinks into himself. “You had Ghostbur with you.” 

“Oh, real nice, yeah, leave me alone with our dead brother, what a brilliant comfort to have, dipshit.”

It’s too much. He doesn’t want to deal with this anymore. In an immensely gratifying realisation, he registers that he doesn’t have to.

“I’m going to my tent,” Tommy says, not bothering to spare a glance behind him as he passes by Tubbo and walks right out the door.

“Tommy, wait-” 

He doesn’t wait. He picks up his pace, breezing past Ghostbur in the yard, who’s carrying a bundle of flowers in his arms. His joyful expression falls as Tommy ignores his greeting. He rushes across the field, taking a second to collect himself once in his tent. He hasn’t been followed. He collects his tools, grabs a torch, and straps on a newly crafted pair of boots. 

Tommy goes to find a cave and doesn’t come out for hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I _guess_ there’ll be another chapter after this one, too  
> (and a happier ending, promise :p)
> 
> thanks for reading <3  
> also, [here](https://dip-dyed-ghost.tumblr.com/)’s my tumblr if anyone feels like checking it out :) although atm it’s mostly just reblogs of mcyt stuff lmao


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